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The Princess. 



...THE PRINCESS PI1PER8.., 



AND POEMS 



BEATRICE CRUMPTON 




CHICAGO: 

SCROLL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1901 



THE LI»«A«t OF 

CONGRESS, 
Two Conw RtciiMo 

AUG. 24 1901 

Corriw^MT tNT«* 
CLASS <^ XX«L N* 

conr B. 






o\ 



Copyright, 1901, 
By Beateice Crumpton. 



TO 

MISS BERTHA REYNOLDS. 

THIS VOLUME 
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 



CONTENTS 



In Pensive Vein, 












9 


The Princess' Evening, 










13 


The Princess at the Opera, 










17 


The Princess Making Bread, 










21 


Princess at Easter, 










25 


A Royal Healer, 

Neither Fools Nor Babies, 










27 
29 


Princess of the Future, 










33 


My Dream of Poesy, 
My Home, 
Lite's Ocean, 












34 
35 
36 


Autumn, 












36 


The Sacrifice, 












37 


Time, 

Only a Dove, 

Harvest Sounds, 












38 
39 
39 


Fairy Lands, 
Gather the Roses, 












40 
41 


My Sweet, 

Who, 

The Flower, 












41 
42 
43 


I'd Nothing to Cheer Me, 










44 


A Tribute to My Mother, 










45 


The First Christmas, 










46 


The First Christmas Carols, 








46 


The First Christmas Gifts, 








47 


Christmas Thoughts, 








47 


Wild Roses, . , , . 








49 


Two, .... 

Prayer, 

The Song Yet to Be Sung, 

The Narcissus, 










SO 
51 
52 
53 


Retrospection, 
Recompense, 
Babydom, 
The Youngest, 
The Morris Chair, 












54 
55 
56 
57 
59 



PRINCESS PAPERS 

IN PENSIVE VEIN. 

The princess is very pretty — dear little princess — 
but the word "little" must be considered only as a term 
of endearment, for among women she is accounted tall, 
with luminous dark eyes, pale olive skin, dusky hair 
and red lips. Her figure rounded, but not too abundant ; 
her hands the kind I, at least, admire most ; not the 
dimpled, cushion-tipped, pink-tinted hands, suggesting 
soft touches and infantile grace ; but the long-fingered, 
satin-skinned, muscular hands. 

I have made no study of hands, but such suggest to 
me always a helpfulness, yet most effeminate, mentality 
and heart. Ah ! Her beauty must charm and never 
cloy, for more forceful than this beauty of form and 
feature is her mental and spiritual charm, her honor 
and her truth, her charity and her love. 

Could I admire her so much had I never known the 
vain, intriguing, pretty, selfish women, whose name is 
legion, or the masculine woman who makes the mistake 
of supposing that to be strong-minded she must be loud 
mouthed, or the priggish woman who looks kindly but 
on her own counterpart ? No ! Oh, no ! Of too coarse 
and common clay, I must know and admire her by com- 
parison, but some day will be the millennium, then we 



The Princess Papers 

men will be of such sterling metal, so honorable and 
true, that each woman will be as is our princess ; her 
honor, her truth, her tenderness as great as the demands 
made, justly made upon them. 



10 



THE PRINCESS' EVENING. 

Thanks to the Princess, I divest myself of daily 
cares and anxieties when my top-coat slips from my 
shoulders. With the hanging of my hat upon the wall, 
I hang the troubles, great and small, that have worried 
me during the day; for this is home, and the Princess' — 
evening, and her smile, rest in her presence, silence with 
the hope of her voice. Practical she must have been — 
dear little Princess — during the day, else all the house- 
hold fairies would not have contrived to make so perfect 
the snow and silver upon her table. Skilled and active, 
the slim, white fingers, for not of themselves do favorite 
dishes present themselves to tempt the appetite, nor all 
the comforts of a well-ordered home array themselves 
unaided for my satisfaction. 

The practicality of the Princess is of the rare and 
beautiful type, effectual and strong, but delicate, sup- 
porting, rather than obscuring the ideality of her nature. 
Duty, however humble, is exalted by her loving thought 
and conscientious endeavor. Oh ! soulful presence ! such 
natures exemplify the possibility of grandeur in sim- 
plicity, loftiness in humility. 

The twilight deepens, but the rosy gleam of impri- 
soned flame arrests the darkness before it is apparent. 
"Play for me, Princess," and the firm whiteness of her 
hands presses the whiteness of the keys. Melody sur- 
rounds me, the wierdness of Beethoven, the poetical 
fancy of Chopin, or the airy lightness of a Strauss 

18 



I 

The Princess Papers 

■waltz. The Princess is in sympathy with whomsoever 
she endeavors to interpret. The pictured face of St. 
Cecelia lends its charm, and almost seems a living pres- 
ence in the glow of light upon it ; but far more beautiful, 
it seems to me, the face of her, our Princess. The ten- 
der, human beauty of her dear womanliness, as self-ef- 
faced she ministers, and through her own ideality up- 
lifts a coarser soul. 



14 




^'■Princess at the Opera. 



THE PRINCESS AT THE OPERA. 

She is a Princess, a dear little Princess, if a trifle 
pert and peremptory, and her sharp little remarks have 
so much of truth in them that we, her subjects, listen — 
yes, and seldom protest. So it was not surprising that 
when the princess lay down her embroidery, and assum- 
ing her most earnest expression (modified somewhat by 
a puzzled little pucker between her pretty eyes) and 
spoke, I laid the evening paper down upon the table 
and listened. 

She began by wondering. "I wonder," said the 
Princess, "whose fault it is, or if not a fault who is re- 
sponsible." 

"For what, Princess?" 

The Princess stopped looking severe and looked in- 
terested (and interesting) and said she would tell me all 
about it. "Now, I was at the theater the other evening 
and, as usual, found much of my evening's pleasure in 
looking about, in building romances about the young 
people, in studying the faces of the older ones, and won- 
dering if I was right in interpreting the facial expres- 
sions and in admiring the pretty costumes when I found 
them. The women v.".!i pictty faces, exquisite gowns, 
and glittering jewels particularly fascinate me. Are 
they of my world, or may it be that outside the paths of 
rectitude they have found their love for soft apparel and 
fair jewels too alluring to be resisted and have therein 
dwelt, bound by the fetters of their own forging? 

17 



The Princess Papers 

"Now," said the Princess, "whose fault is it that 
these thoughts come to me — is it not because the differ- 
ence is so marked? 

"Why do not the gems and rich raiment mark the 
honored wife, the virtuous mother, the striving, self-for- 
getting woman, who gives her life, her strength, her 
smiles, her prayers, her tears for those nearest and 
dearest? 

"Ah." repeated the Princess, "where shall we look 
for explanation?" 

For answer I coughed, coughed again so violently 
that the Princess became concerned and insisted upon 
treating me to some lozenges, and I wondered if, per- 
haps, after all it was only a vagary of a very imaginative 
little Princess. 



18 




'^Princess Making Bread.'' 



THE PRINCESS MAKING BREAD. 

The Princess was kneading bread, for she is such a 
capable Httle sovereign, not only can she reign regally 
and sweetly, the center of attraction in her salon, but 
when necessity demands she can and will provide for 
the comfort and well-being of those who may rightfully 
expect comfort at her hands. 

The morning light streamed through the window, 
and in the strong light the cameo face of the Princess 
seemed to me an exquisite carving in ivory, but more 
enchanting, for the bright eyes and the scarlet mouth 
and almost imperceptible dimple in the firm white 
cheek told their own story of life, pulsing, warm, emo- 
tional life. The white supple fingers clasped the white 
mass, and with firm and rhythmic movement folded and 
clasped, folded and clasped, 'till it became as smooth as 
satin and the faint little explosion of the air bubbles 
played a soft accompaniment to the little hiss of the 
dough as it separated from the slab. 

The Princess looked at me and I became receptive, 
for the Princess had something to say. "It is true," 
said the Princess, "that you must have good flour, and 
that means good wheat and good milling, else you can- 
not have good bread ; and you must have used the proper 
amount and provided the right temperature throughout 
the time, and enough salt and not too much, and just 
shortening to make it tender, but without the little 
leaven, what would it all avail? The machinery and 

21 



The Princess Papers 

workmanship the best so that the flour is perfect in 
every way, each ingredient carefully doled out and of 
best quality, without the leaven would be a heavy, un- 
palatable, indigestible mass ; but with its influence, its 
gentle workings made known through every atom all 
unite, softly expand, and as if in exultation, rise in 
billowy whiteness over the shining confines." 

The Princess paused, and I felt rather than saw her 
luminous eyes as she continued. ''It is like life, our 
daily, homely life. There is the firm, sound wheat of 
morality, the grinding wheels of endeavor, the salt of 
sterling worth ; but the leaven of charity, the influence 
of love that permeates all, softens, and lightens, and up- 
lifts — ah ! without love we are surely but a weariness ; 
but with love and its workings, true success is ours." 

I made no answer, but to my eyes she seemed an 
evangel, the dusky hair with the sunlight upon it, an 
aureole, and surely her loving presence leavened my 
coarser nature and in mv heart I called her blessed. 



22 




^'Princess at Easter. 



PRINCESS AT EASTER. 

The Princess stood in the little glass enclosure 
(which she is pleased to dignify by so pretentious a 
name as her "conservatory"). The air was sweet with 
the scent of flowers, for the plants responded kindly to 
her care and attested to her study of their needs by 
the best fulfillment of their mission to grow and blos- 
som. The golden plumage of her pet canary took on a 
brighter hue as the morning sun flitted through the 
foliage and bathed him in its brightness, while his morn- 
ing song filled the little room with harmony. 

The Princess moved lovingly about the little green- 
ery, stopping at last by the tall Easter lilies with their 
fully opened blossoms and their buds of promise. Her 
slim, white lingers flashed among the green leaves and 
white blossoms ; her pure flower face bent tenderly over 
them. "Queen lily of them all." rose to my lips, for so 
she seemed with her slim tallness, her flower face and 
white lingers ; but I did not utter the words. The 
Princess does not like compliments about her beauty. 
She must know that uncommon beauty is her portion. 

With exquisite taste, she brings out by careful em- 
bellishments her beauty of form and feature ; with true 
feminine instinct she enhances her charms by the care 
she bestows upon her beautiful self, and then dismisses 
the thought. 

Had I broken in upon her thoughts with some ful- 
some compliment, the flush of clispleasure would have 

25 



The Princess Papers 

stained her fair face, and perhaps I could have detected 
a contemptuous curve to the sensitive mouth, hence I 
desisted nor gave voice to my admiration as I responded 
to her pleasant greeting. 

"It is Easter morning," said the Princess, "the world 
is pulsing at the thought of it, and I have had such a 
pretty conceit about it, I must tell you. If only each 
lofty Easter thought was a lily, we would walk to church 
upon a path of fragrance, for they would lie in profusion 
everywhere, entirely obliterating every unsightly thing. 
We would go into the flower banked edifices with arms 
flower-laden, and kneel among their snowy blossoms for, 
I am sure, that on this Easter morning there can be no 
impure thought, no spirit of vmkindness^ and no remem- 
bered wrong." 

Did I beHeve her ? Ah, well ! At least, it was a 
lofty thought and churches are not the only places to 
hear sermons and be benefited, and always will be with 
me on Easter time the memory of a pure soul looking 
out through beautiful dark eyes ; a tender influence that 
led me into better thoughts, and the beautiful, human 
shape of the Princess as she stood among the Easter 
lilies and told me of her Easter thoughts. 



26 



A ROYAL HEALER. 

The Princess is not brisk, while she does not lack in 
earnestness. The brisk woman rubs you the wrong 
way. She may be a most excellent person ; she may 
wish to be most helpful, kind and efficient, but the 
scurry of her skirts, the patter of her feet, the abrupt- 
ness of her as she bustles about, creates a restlessness 
in your own feelings, and if you are weary in body, con- 
fused in mind, these discomforts are increased by her 
well-meant briskness, and your sensations are as if you 
had been given a trip in a merry-go-round by some 
amiable, but mistaken friend. 

As usual, when thinking of the Princess I think 
with admiration, not alone of what she is but of what 
she is not. It seems to be by comparison that her lova- 
ble attributes are most vividly brought out, her earn- 
estness, her deftness, even seem more delicate and per- 
fect when considered in juxtaposition to the briskness 
of other and less lovely women. 

With no tedious repetitions as to "How I felt now" 
the Princess stepped quickly, but not gingerly, to the 
window, lowered the shade that the glare of the sun 
might not come as a ball of fire to my weary eyes, 
seated herself in the noiseless rocker, and banished the 
many tortuous sights and sounds that the tense and 
weary nerves may conjure up out of a seeming silence, 
by her own rich voice and the rhythmic motion of her 
body, as she swayed gently back and forth in her own 

27 



The Princess Pajyers 

particular chair. Her long white fingers carried the 
shining needle and colored threads, and the blossoms 
grew as if by the magic of her touch over the white 
tissue that she held. 

Perhaps she sang some song of wondrous fame and 
beauty, perhaps 'twas but some catchy air — the news- 
boy's daily whistle on the streets — I do not know. Her 
voice mingled with my dreams of her, her real form 
through closing eyelids seen, unchanged was near me in 
my vision. Pain vanished, distractions fled, business 
worries, I had none ; first came content, then peace, 
then blest and needed boon, repose. 

Awakening in dusk and solitude, with head bowed 
at the thoughts of her, I laid my hand caressingly upon 
the little sewing-chair and whispered. "All blessings 
upon thee, little healer, as I am blessed in thee." 



28 



NEITHER FOOLS NOR BABIES. 

What could be the matter with the Princess? There 
was a mutinous look in her dark eyes, a scornful curve 
to the scarlet lips, and her cheek — always so like a warm 
white rose — had one spot of flame that cast a roseate 
shading over the dimple, or over the spot where the 
dimple lay in wait for the smile, which was its excuse 
for being. 

The Princess was not pouting, by no manner of 
means ! Our Princess never forgets her princess-ship 
to the extent of pouting. Ordinary women pout, but 
the Princess looked disturbed and somewhat scornful. 
"Why do you treat us thus?" said the Princess. 'Tt is 
humiliating." (I assume the word "you" to apply not 
to myself alone, but to the masculine population in 
general.) "x-Xs if we were babies, or fools, or both, or 
worse. We are not your equals, as a whole, I must ad- 
mit that ; I don't like to, but I must, for while I believe 
that there are many women who are fitted to stand 
shoulder to shoulder with men, with brains as clear and 
masterful, with nerves as steady, with insight as keen, 
the majority of us are not." 

The roseate shadow widened, and the dimple was 
blotted out entirely. "You demand too little," continued 
the Princess, "and we are what you demand. Why do 
you deem it necessary to drop an interesting and im- 
proving topic as if it were accursed, and descend to 
silly compliments or small tittle-tattle if we women ap- 

29 



The Princess Papers 

pear upon the scene? Is it necessary to look as well as 
to act idiotic when addressing yourselves to us in con- 
versation? We wish to please you, God gave us that 
wish. Does it please you only that we are comely and 
can smile? No, no," continued the Princess, in con- 
tradiction (I really had not spoken, however), "I am 
not talking or thinking of 'women's rights,' as they are 
usually understood. That is another story, but believe 
me, the average woman is not at her best ; she is satis- 
fied to be that which is expected. Touch her pride and 
she will reach out toward greater achievements with the 
keen perception which is her birthright ; she will dis- 
cover when you find her wanting, and with the quick 
adaptation which is surely her own, she will soon fill the 
requirements. We want not to be men, but to cease to 
be babies." 

Of course the Princess did not cry, but the dews of 
gentleness suffused the dark eyes and quenched the fire. 
The waves of warm color receded, and I welcomed the 
shallow dent in the white cheek as a harbinger of a gentle 
mood, as I fell to wondering how much truth there was 
in this gentle outburst. My vanity had not been wound- 
ed, (Oh, fair little diplomat) and as ever when the Prin- 
cess speaks, my better nature was refreshed and strength- 
ened, and more plainly could I see myself and others as 
the Princess and others see us. 



30 




'■'■Princess of the Future^ 



PRINCESS OF THE FUTURE. 

At last I am summoned into that upper room where- 
in she lies, my Princess. I have been waiting, waiting- 
waiting hours in fact— but years, ages, eternities if times 
could be computed by the agonies of uncertainty and 
suspense which have been my portion while I sat, 
walked, knelt in voiceless prayer for her and 

But my waiting is ended. The pompous vet kindly 
autocrat of that mysterious chamber has bidden me go 
to the Princess— and with her own dear smile sh^ wel- 
comes me. t 

Oh ! She has wandered far and almost straved away 
from me, and through the portals of another' country, 
and can it be, perhaps, that one strong loving thought 
for one who loves her so, recalled her to her home, and 
to her work unfinished here below? 

She has been far ; but, home again, she brings with 
her from that mysterious journey life's choicest gift to 
me. "The Little Princess," then I murmured o'er the 
tmy form, close nestled by my dear one's side. 

My happy tears baptized the child, while in my con- 
sciousness awoke the prayerful wish that she might bless 
the world with such a nature as her mother owns, her 
mother our sweet Princess 



83 



The Princess Papers 



MY DREAMS OF POESY. 

Among the ships so stately. 

That sail o'er the waves of time, 

With a fluttering heart, and timid, 
I'm launching my craft of Rhyme. 

I sing when the sun is shining, 
I sing when the stars are bright, 

I sing when the clouds of sorrow 
Make gloomy the winter night. 

In my heart is a well of gladness, 
A thankfulness for my birth, 

A spirit of joy and singing. 

That bears me away from earth. 

Away to the land of summer. 
Away from all thoughts of care, 

Where the soil of toil comes never, 
Where dwellings are built of air. 

So I sing of the idle fancies 

That flock through a willing brain ; 
Forgetting my heart is heavy. 

Forgetting the falling rain. 

Though my songs are only singing. 
Nor teach of the great and the good, 

I surely shall be contented 

To know they are understood. 

And among the gifts, God given. 
Thank God for the gift of song, 

84 



Miscellaneous Poems 

For it keeps me from other pleasures, 
And holds me away from wrong. 

I can roam in the land of Poesy, 
Where the blossoms eternal bloom, 

Forgetting the world and sorrow, 
Forgetting the chill and gloom. 

*^ 

MY HOME. 

Fve built me a wonderful home, 
'Tis a palace of fabulous size ; 

For it rests on God's footstool, the earth, 
And reaches the star-spangled skies. 

It has terraces, windows and halls ; 

It has recesses, arches and doors ; 
The gems from Brazilian mines 

Are sunk in its beautiful floors. 

Its pillars are marble and gold, 

In exquisite workmanship wrought, 

Rare paintings and tapestry fine, 
My uncounted riches have bought. 

Aeolian harps never fail 

To chant me their winsome refrain. 
Or I press on the ivory keys. 

And coax forth a beautiful strain. 

Have you seen it — this beautiful home. 
This castle that's builded of air. 

With naught to mar or deface. 
And all surpassingly fair? 

35 



The Princess Papers 

The gems by my fancy are coined, 
The paintings in memory's hall, 

The music is only the wind, 
The castle is air, that is all. 

^* 

LIFE'S OCEAN. 

Wind-driven clouds of darkness all around me, 
Beneath me water many fathoms deep, 

My pathway dark, the angry waves surround me, 
About my bark the angry billows leap. 

It is life's ocean and its wrongs assail me. 
And I am weak, discouraged and alone, 

But ruleth One above that never fails me, 
He watcheth kindly ever o'er his own. 

Oh ! tender, loving God-heart that enfolds me, 

Let not the angry billows over roll, 
Lose all my weakness in the strength that holds me, 

Oh ! let me not make shipwreck of my soul. 

^* 
AUTUMN. 

'Tis with a golden scepter Autumn reigns. 
She comes into her own with regal sign. 

With soft, voluptuous graces Autumn deigns 
To grant retreating Summer smiles benign. 

We hear her soft, prophetic sigh, and know 

That trembling 'mong the branches of the trees 

There is a promise of the Winter's snow. 
As whispered by the dying Summer breeze. 

36 



Miscellaneous Poems 

We find the purple asters flaunting where 
Among the daisies we but lately trod, 

And as the royal wand of Autumn, there 
Blooms bravely in our path the goldenrod. 

In gold and purple comes our royal maid, 
With one accord we greet her as a queen. 

As one assured of welcome, unafraid, 

Upon the throne of vanquished Summer seen. 

^* 

THE SACRIFICE. 

We did not remember when Love was born, 
But smiling and sweet he before us lay 

As tender as twilight, bright as morn. 
We clasped him close and bade him stay. 

The child of our friendship — we called it so — 
Friendship, and thoughts of the selfsame things. 

Such joy, as we knew not mortals could know, 
Was born to our hearts on the cherub's wings. 

But one long look in each other's eyes. 

As ever one thought, and the same sad thought, 

We knew there must be a sacrifice, 

Our joy was with conscience and honor bovight. 

But Love was faithful and would not go. 
He held us fast, and he pleaded well. 

He whispered, "Without me there is but woe, 
I stay and such rapture no tongue can tell."' 

Love would not go, so again one look 
We read in each other's eyes his doom, 

87 



The Princess Papers 

His home in our hearts we must not brook, 

Where his home had been, we must make his tomb. 

We willed it so, and Love lies dead. 

No more we look in each other's eyes, 
And far apart are the paths we tread, 

But we cannot forget the sweet sacrifice. 

TIME. 

Time, the extortionist, took from me 
Treasures I counted as mine by right, 

Youth, and beauty, and heart as free 

As thistle-down or foam of the sea. 
Or the swallows in their flight. 

Time, the destroyer, with vandal hand, 
Shattered my idols, and cast away 

Blind belief and a faith in all. 

That once invaded is past recall. 
Brief dream of a summer day. 

Time, the beneficent, filled my soul 

With trophies, grander than gems of youth, 
With lofty purposes held through years. 
Through sun of smiles and showers of tears, 
And the priceless pearl of truth. 

Time, the restorer, brought back to me 
Greater boons than he snatched away. 
The days gone by as rosary beads 
Mark prayers to suit my present needs, 
As striving I learn to pray. 

38 



Miscellaneous Poems 



ONLY A DOVE. 

Only a dove with silvery wings, 
A spot of white in the summer air ; 

Only a feathered bit of life, 

Only a dove with plumage rare. 

But the snowy bird is a messenger, 

She brings me news from beyond the sea; 

She brings me the olive branch of love, 
She tells me that some one is true to me. 

She tells me that I am dearer yet, 
Dearer than I have been before ; 

She tells me a home is waiting for me, 
And I shall be lone no more. 

Oh, dove with the snowy wings, 

Fly back to that foreign clime ; 
Tell him I'll be his loving bride, 

That my love shall last with time. 

Some day thou shalt rest, my dove. 
We shall rest in our own fair home. 

With you, my bird, and my lover. 
Rest, never again to roam. 

HARVEST SOUNDS. 

Cheerfully sounding o'er mead and vale, 
Echoing lightly o'er hill and dale, 
All unmarred by a sob or a wail 
I hear the mowers singing. 

39 



The Princess Papers 

Whistling boys and shouting men 
Sound their carols from field and glen, 
Filling the air with mirth again, 
The while the reapers singing. 

Prattling children among the hay, 

Ruddy grow in the sun's bright ray, 

That glints, and glimmers, and gleams away, 

So brightly and warmly beaming. 
Harvest apples like lumps of gold, 
Hidden lie in grassy fold, 
Close to the gnarled, old trunk are rolled, 

The earth with gladness teeming. 

FAIRY LAND. 

In the land of sweet fancy I roam, 

I build me a beautiful home, 

I build it of sunshiny hours. 

And converse I hold with the flowers. 

I people my valley with dreams. 

And dress it with mountains and streams. 

Each dream is an angel of light. 

Each brooklet is silver and white. 

The trees and the mountains are mist, 
The fountains by elfins are kissed. 
The clouds are the thoughts of an. hour, 
The sunlight is genius in power. 

Why dwell ye with mortals of clay ? 
I bid you in dreamland to stay. 
Your heart is guileless of wrong. 
Your lips must be fragrant with song. 

40 



Miscellaneous Poems 



GATHER THE ROSES. 

Gather the roses while dewdrops still linger, 

Pluck the sweet blossoms that greet vou in Alay. 

Oh, do not wait till the petals are withered', 
Thinking the blossoms forever will stay. 

Live in the sunlight while summer is with you, 

Open the shutters and let in the light. 
Oh, do not wait till the snowflakes are falling, 

Thinking that summer will never take flight. 

Gather the roses of joy and of gladness, 
In your heart keeping the sunlight of love. 

Till where there's sunlight and roses forever. 
You may enjoy them forever above. 

MY SWEET. 

Drift on drift of snowy clouds. 

Like your brow, so pearly white. 
In the azure float along. 

Like your eyes as blue and bright. 

Crimson petaled roses bloom, 
In your cheek the selfsame hue. 

Deeper tinted in the bud 

Of your lips a semblance true. 

Ivy round my cottage twines. 

So your heart is twined with mine ; 

Graceful tendrils clasp the trees ; 
Greater grace than this is thine. 

41 



The Princess Papers 

Every cloud, and vine, and flower 

Brings me thoughts of thee, my sweet, 

Thou art all that's pure and fair, 
In thy woodland home retreat. 

*^ 

WHO. 

Oh, who could tint the sky above. 

With a lovelier hue than blue. 
Oh, where's the hand that could paint a flower 

In a color that would be new? 

Oh, who could rear a statelier tree 

Than grows in our forest now ; 
Or who could dress it in greener leaves, 

Than tremble on every bough? 

Oh, who could give to the little brook 

A brighter crystal and flash. 
Or who could give to the sea a wave, 

With a fury new to dash ? 

Or who could brighten a drop of dew. 

That rests in the crimson rose ; 
Or who could give to the mountain range 

New beauty or change of pose? 

If 'only a word was now required. 
Or a thought to change this earth, 

Oh. where is a brain that's great enough 
To give to the thought its birth ? 

Then sing aloud with every joy. 

For the beauties round about. 
And for this earth that is broad and fair. 

Your thanks forever shout. 

42 



Miscellaneous Poems 



THE FLOWER. 

I have read in books of the olden time 

Of a workman of cunning hand, 
Who wrought a song of his own fresh heart, 

Out of the yellow, golden sand. 

He chained the music that dwells in sound. 

Till the masters of the art 
Saw, made only by a goldsmith's hand. 

The ideal song of the heart. 

And I sighed as I read, I could not but sav, 
"Oh, would that these dwell below. 

Who could the mysteries of God 
In such a manner show. 

"For we are weak, and that we may see. 
And that we may see and understand,' 

Must have the spiritual chained to earth. 
And touch it with the hand." 

As I pondered thus, a voice within 

Spoke thus, "But pluck that flower; 
Is It not a symbol of purity, of mystery and power; 

Does it not tell thee, skeptic heart, 

That above there reigneth One,' 
Who guides each planet in its path. 

And lights the glaring sun." 

Can he, with reason well endowed. 
Doubt of the higher power? 
If he gazes silently upon one little flower, 

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In it is chained the evidence 

To melt a skeptic's heart. 
Enough of Him, who dwells above, 

Great knowledge to impart. 

ID NOTHING TO CHEER ME. 

The great heaving ocean, 

The waves all commotion, 
Was round me that dark, stormy day. 

My sky was all clouded. 

The bright sun was shrouded. 
My heart too despairing to weep or to pray. 

My ark was so dreary, 

And I was so weary, 
Was watching and writing a long, darksome while. 

I'd nothing to cheer me. 

No loving one near me 
The long stormy hours to kindly beguile. 

I op'ed wide the shutter. 

And with a soft flutter. 
My dove soared aloft, far out of my sight. 

Then I ceased my sighing, 

My sorrow and crying. 
And watched the pure bird with throb of delight. 

Back, back she is winging. 

The olive branch bringing. 
Oh, tender and beautiful promise of green, 

There's verdure remaining, 

'Midst dark clouds raining. 
Oh, snowv white voyager, where hast thou been? 

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Those clouds were my sorrow, 

No hope of a morrow, 
Brought happiness into my rough, thorny path. 

The dark, surging ocean. 

The ceaseless commotion 
Of sin and of sorrow, of anguish and wrath. 

And, oh, beyond measure. 

The worth of that treasure, 
My heart, 'mid the throes of its agony found, 

When bruised and broken. 

Was healed by this token. 
That kindness and love in the world yet abound. 

^* 

A TRIBUTE TO MY MOTHER. 

I said, "good painter, paint for me 

A picture I will love, 
I care not where the model be. 

On earth — beneath — above. 

"But paint it so that when I look 

Some memory Til recall. 
And think you've taken it for me. 

From out of memory's hall."' 

I said, "Sweet poet, write for me 

A bubbling of rhyme. 
That I may think you sing to me 

A strain of olden time. 

'T care not if the song be short, 

I care not if it's long. 
But let me think it is my heart 

Burst out in glorious song." 

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The painter did my bidding well, 

The poet spoke one word, 
But it awakened memories 

As soon as it was heard. 

The painter on the canvas had 

My mother's face portrayed, 
My mother's name in accents low, 

Was what the poet said. 

*^ 
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS. 

In the lowly chamber they laid the child, 

In the stall where the oxen fed, 
And the humble spot was glorified 

By the halo around his head. 

And Christmas, the first that ever was known, 

Was there in the cattle's stall ; 
In the lowly stable Christ was born, 

The Savior for one and all. 

^* 
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS CAROLS. 

There were angels without that sweetly sang, 
"Peace on earth — to men good will." 

For a Savior was born unto the world, 
And their souls with joy did fill. 

The Christmas carols — the first e'er sung, 

Rang out on the clear, pure air ; 
They sang of the grace and glory of God, 

And the Christ child cradled there. 

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THE FIRST CHISTMAS GIFTS. 

And travelers came from far and near. 
And sought where the young child lay, 

But none could tell till a star appeared. 
And guided them all the way. 

The Christmas gifts — the very first — 
Were myrrh and glittering gold. 

The wise men knelt by the little child, 
And the treasures there unrolled. 

*^ 

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS. 

'Tis Christmas morning, listen ! 
The air resounds with bells, 

And every chime, 

As they ring in rhyme. 
The birth of a Savior tells. 

And before us, shining brightly, 
A gate with golden bars ; 

Beyond us lies, 

As a glad surprise, 
New hopes, and the morning stars. 

With our eager hands extended 
To open the shining gate, 

We linger yet. 

With a vague regret. 
And 'mong the memories sadly wait. 

For is there beyond its portal, 
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In the New Year's coming days, 

The loving smile, 

That care beguiles, 
That have gladdened us with their rays. 

The road looks so fair, unbroken, 
And far up the pleasant slope, 

There's a May-day throng. 

And birds with songs. 
And the flaunting flower of Hope. 

The west is gray with morning. 
And crimson the eastern glow ; 

Our smiles are sweet. 

But with tears replete, 
For those whom we used to know. 

Young feet have tired and faltered, 
And pitying angel hands 

In heavenly love, 

Reached from above 
And bore them to other lands. 

But the gate swings wide before us, 
The bells are sounding clear. 

And morning light 

Brings a glad delight, 
Beyond smiles the fair New Year. 

Peace on earth! Aye, joy in Heaven. 
To men, good will. Amen. 

With the evening stars 

The golden bars 
Of the portals will close again. 

And, oh ! For the love of mercy, 

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To gladden the face of care. 

Let smlies like gems 

Of rare diadems, 
Shine forth on us everywhere. 

** 

WILD ROSES. 

The rose trees are bending in modest grace, 
As if to hide from the world a face. 
So glowing in pink in the sunlight's gleam, 
And brighter grow with the noonday beam. 

The velvety rose of a crimson hue. 

Has bathed her petals in the morning dew, 

And vies in beauty the golden one 

That stole her beauty from out the sun. 

The single bloom of the briar tree, 
Is shedding its perfume rare but free, 
And the flaunting pink of the Prairie Queen, 
O'er lattice of window and door is seen. 

The pink and red of the tinted flower, 
That blooms so fair in the ladies' bower, 
Is hiding its buds in a filmy frame, 
And takes from the woodland moss its name. 

The blushing bride of a summer day. 
Steals from her girlish friends away. 
And plucks with fingers fair and sweet, 
A rose as white as the winter's sleet. 

But I hie away to the thorny hedge. 
To cull the treasures along its edge, 

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Dwarf trees of brightest tint of green, 
Where blossoms and buds abound, are seen. 

Some white, some pink, some red as fire, 
But each one suits my heart's desire ; 
I pluck them and think of my childhood past, 
So like the blossoms — too sweet to last. 

My hands I fill and my home is blest. 
For they quiet my feverish, vague unrest, 
They take one back to those happy days. 
Where naught of discord or sorrow stays. 

Oh, Lord, I thank Thee for these dear flowers, 
These sweet reminders of happy hours ; 
They wither while yet in my hands they are. 
But the door to memory they leave ajar. 

^* 

TWO. 

The one stands pensive, smilingly. 

And looks, if backward, on her youth. 

If forward, to declining years and age, 
To partings, and the abode of truth. 

Silent and thoughtful, ah, no dirth of thought, 
For all of life with loving is replete — 

With blessing others all about her way. 
Such memories are fragrant now and sweet. 

Thoughtful, sorry too, in her sweet loving way, 
That she has sometimes been misunderstood. 

Regrets in tender conscientiousness and tears. 
That all her works have not been counted good. 

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Oh, beauteous womanhood ! In thee I see 

Friendship, and truth, maternal love combined. 

Oh, friend and sister ! Every stricken one 
May in thee comfort, loving kindness tind. 

The other slumbers peacefully and smiles, 

Or wakes with blue, wide-open, wonder eyes, 

And looks on tinsel toys or blooming flower, 
With startled laughter or a glad surprise. 

Will sob with grief if tender finger-tips 
Are wounded by the thorns about a rose ; 

If weary, some sweet senseless lullaby 
Will hush the wailing into calm repose. 

God bless them, guide them — one for what is done. 
The other for the battles sure to come ; 

And may the Savior love sustain each heart, 
And His own arm receive them to His home. 

Two faces, beautiful, fair and mild 

I see, but see less plainly for the loving tears. 
May every day that passes bless my hopes, 

And every hour dispell as mist my fears. 

*^ 

PRAYER. 

A network, maybe, of most brilliant thought, 
Bedecked with words, like shining beads. 

With beauteous phrases, finely wrought, 
To sue for pardon, or express our needs. 

Or joined to organ's mellifluous tone, 
Rich voices with God-given gift of song 

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Rise quivering to Almighty's throne, 

Beseeching pardon for our every wrong. 

From lips in learning steeped for years, 
In choicest language — cultured, calm — 

May voice thanksgiving, tell our fears. 
With cadence thrilling as a tender psalm. 

No less a prayer, when mutely penitent, 
Prostrate we fall, and breathing agony 

Through choking sobs our message sent. 
For mercy and forgiveness, we may cry. 

Or, through the dragging hours of the night 
When sleep comes not to ease our pain. 

We see our Savior with our spirit's sight. 
And gather strength to meet the day again. 

One word, or but an outstretched hand. 

Eyes heavy with our unshed tears ; 
Ah ! Think you not but He will understand. 

And in His loving God-heart lose our fears. 

Prayer, 'tis the voicing of a need 

To Him, acknowledged center of all good ; 

Dissolved in loving tribute every creed — 

Each heart's own language of Him understood. 

THE SONG YET TO BE SUNG. 

There's a beautiful song that is yet to be sung; 

The soul of the singer is faint with desire, 
The harp that is longed for is yet unstrung, 

The songs are awaiting a heavenly choir. 

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In the brain of the poet there dormant Hes 
Such verses as mortals have never heard. 

They will burst from his lips as a glad surprise, 
Fulfillment of rhythm so long deferred. 

Of beautiful landscapes the painter dreams, 
But elusive, they vanish with waking eyes ; 

Such verdure, such mountains, such sparkling streams 
Belong to a country beyond the skies. 

Somewhere is a love freed from passion's dross. 

Sometime must perfection in all be attained. 
There must be a state of gain without loss, 

There must be a heaven — 'tis so ordained. 

THE NARCISSUS. 

It was brown and unattractive, 

Nor was there aught to show 
That from so dull a promise 

A fulfillment bright would grow. 

But in its dull brown bosom 

Were imprisoned germs of grace. 

And obeying God's own order, 
Reaching upward found its place. 

Just the warm earth and the sunshine. 

And the shower — that was all ; 
Save the influence of the hidden 

That is gone in Nature's call. 

Why the sunshine, why the shower, 
The Narcissus does not know, 

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But acceptance is its mission, 
Rooted in the earth below. 

So I pray in human fashion 

For a spark of love divine 
That will stir the germs of beauty 

In this earth-bound soul of mine. 

^* 

RETROSPECTION. 

Sometimes when the tasks of the moment 

Are rolled by fulfillment away ; 
In the cool blessed calm of the evening, 

That follows the heat of the day, 
I steal softly up to my chamber, 

And shut out the noise and the light. 
Alone I can revel in thinking 

My thoughts, be they somber or bright. 

It is then in this hour of indulgence, 

I blot out the present — and all 
But the scenes and the thoughts of that moment, 

Forevermore dearest of all. 
When close in your dear arms I nestled, 

And felt your warm breath in my face, 
I would barter today my hope, dearest. 

To rest once again in that place. 

Oh, bright as the sun on the mountain, 
Where all else is bleak and austere, 

Is this the gem in my memory's casket, 
For the love that casts out every fear. 

Was yours, and was mine for one moment, 
Albeit the joy could not wait — 

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We breathed but one word ere we parted — 
Kismet — and we knew it was fate. 

But fate, even fate cannot rob me 

Of this blessed hour of the day, 
When, every known duty accompHshed, 

I steal to my chamber away. 
In the coolness, and calm, and silence, 

I live in the thought of that hour, 
When leagues of unkind circumstances 

Were routed by love's fervid power. 

RECOMPENSE. 

There are no depths beyond my depths of sorrow, 
There are no heights above my joy today; 

I have no hope of respite on the morrow, 
No vain regrets for any yesterday. 

The price I pay for this one hour's completeness 
Is vast, and well I knew it long ago. 

But for this moment of most perfect sweetness 
I gladly drink the dregs of bitterest woe. 

So welcome, rapture, joy and gladness, 

A thousand times well worth the awful cost, 

And welcome, anguish, woe and sadness, 

For gain so great, there must be something lost. 



L.ofC. 



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BABYDOM. 

You must find it hard to understand, 
But Babydom is a wonderful land — 
There are humble babies and babes of degree, 
Yet each is the monarch of all, you see, 
In Babydom — babies' land. 

Think you 'tis a limited monarchy — 
This land with its limitless boundary ? 
Such despots, such tyrants are seldom seen, 
And each inhabitant is a king or a queen, 
In Babydom — fair country. 

Sometimes they are hostile — but, be it so, 
In all the world over they've never a foe. 
The master of castle or dweller in tent. 
The blithest of mortals, or sad malcontent, 
Once ruled Babydom, you know. 

THE YOUNGEST. 

When "His Royal Nibs" — the youngest. 

Awakes with the morning's light, 
And lifts the gold-fringed curtains 

From eyes that are starry bright. 
His close-cropped head he raises 

And looks for his little chair, 
For upon that throne reposes 

The clothes for "His Nibs" to wear. 

If he sees, with the wee cloth trousers, 
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Some frills, laced-edged and white, 
With hose that are black and speckless, 

And shoes that are polished bright. 
He sighs with a sage prescience 

As he thinks of the Sunday's calm, 
But the thought of the evening story 

Consoles for the morning psalm. 

But when with the trim, laced sweater 

And the suit of home-spun gray, 
The stout little boots for service 

Stand out in the sturdiest way, 
"His Nibs" makes a little grimace 

Of mingled disgust and joy. 
For kingship is shared in the schoolroom 

With many another boy. 

But, oh, when all else surmounting 

Are his overalls, stanch and true, 
"His Nibs" gives a shout of triumph 

For his denim's beloved blue. 
Each day of the week has its solace 

With its limited scepter and throne. 
But Saturday's dearer than other. 

When the king comes into his own. 

THE MORRIS CHAIR. 



It seems to be but a Morris chair 
When "His Nibs" is not about. 

But a wonderful metamorphosis there 
When he comes in with a shout. 

He clambers into its roomy seat 

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And seizes the ribbon reins ; 
The bells are real — the snow a cheat — 
As he skims over the plains. 

Perhaps instead of a gallant sleigh 

'Tis a ship with a snowy sail ; 
The carpet is ocean enough for play, 

It is easy to plan then a gale. 
So "His Nibs" is a sailor brave and true, 

Who always comes safe to port. 
With treasures vast and a valiant crew, 

And oh ! what elegant sport ! 

Sometimes indeed 'tis the fast express 

With passengers glad and gay ; 
If you watch "His Nibs" you can surely tell 

Just which is the favorite play. 
But evening comes ere the boy's aware, 

And he longs for a cosy nap, 
So mamma must sit in the Morris chair, 

And "His Nibs" must sit on her lap. 



HO 



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